Together Separate
by Rocky-mountain-Relations
Summary: "'I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.' 'Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.'" Edgar A. Poe. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish what's really there, what was there, and what could be there. Harder is to admit what is really there is truly there; hardest yet to act on that fact. Best not loose your sanity.
1. Chapter 1

**Together Separate**

It's cold. Oh, _so _cold. He can feel his brother's spirit around him. The gusts of freezing September wind, the impenetrable forests, the rushing rivers sweeping against his legs—Canada's warning: _'Stay away, leave me __**out **__of this!' _But Canada would _never_ stay mad at _America_; Canada **_could _**never stay mad at America, right? Right. He's just confused is all, right? Right. It's that—that _England _doing this to dear, pretty, _valuable_ Canada, right? Right. America would just have to march to Quebec and help Canada see the light, see how wrong he is. See how wrong _England_ is. Canadia could come with him, leave that tyrant's house. Come stay with America, his strong brother that loves him. It would be like old times—before Spain, before France, before the "_Protector_."

Together, to be free—_free_, with America being Canada's hero, of course. Hero, savior of the poor, quiet, _defenceless_ Canada. And that makes America smile, _smile_, **_smile. _**With the warm thought of Canada embracing him, crying in relief, he trudges on against foreboding snow-flurries and ominous grey cloud overcast.

* * *

He arrives in Quebec, December now. It's like a Christmas present! Oh, Canada will be so _happy _to see him! The frosty wind whipping around him, stinging his cheeks a dusted pink, is obviously his brother's sheer joy. Oh, he will put Canada out of his waiting misery. "Mattie! I'm here, isn't that great?!" He is met with silence, only a wall present in front of him. "Mattie? Oh, _Mattie,_ come out and say hello to the _hero_!"

A figure emerges atop the wall, jaw set in determination. The wavy blond hair that frames his face (one so similar to _America's,_ one so similar to his _own_) fell to the shoulders of a coat. A _red_ coat.

"America, as a fellow colony of the Kingdom of Great Britain, I demand you leave this territory."

He continues without ever hearing the solemn warning left in the tone of the speaker. Because, after all, Canada would _never _say that. "Canadia, come with me! We can just _leave_ him; we don't _need _him_. _I promise I'll protect you, and you'll never have to deal with that oppressive, unscrupulous, _intolerable __**Britain**_. Just come down, off the wall. Come to your _brother, _Mattie, don't be frightened into staying with _him._" He looks up to the top of the solid wall, smirking in triumph. _Obviously_, Canada will come down and just crumple in relief.

"America, get off my soil. _Now_." Those violet-blue eyes glare down, containing all the frost and malice of the blizzarding snow coming down upon him. The Brown Bess at his side is raised, poised to fire.

Oh, the poor thing, so confused! Canada must be so indoctrinated that he doesn't realize that he's only there to help him! Only there to become one and break the bonds of tyranny. He would be sure to rule—er, govern…uh, _coexist_ with due love and protection, naturally.

"For the final chance of peace here, _leave,__ Alfred! _I don't want to harm you, but I will."

"Oh, dear Mattie, you must be so tired. You have been in his _shackles_ so long; you no longer see how he lords over you. You think you know him, but not longer than I. He's _evil, _Matt. Come, stop being so stubborn." He's practicality cooing at this point. Oh, won't his dearest brother just see the light?

"_God help me, Alfred, get off my land!" _The musket in his hands is shaking—fury and pain and trepidation forcing his limbs into such a state.

"Canada, _surrender. _Come to warmer plains and greener land. With you, I—_we _can be stronger. Oh, what a glorious day!" He stares up, crazed blue meeting vicious purple. Oh, Canada's anger at _Britain _is finally showing. How happy a day. His own musket is staring up at Canada, purely for show, of course.

A compact, lithe, _powerful _figure emerges from a shadowed wall tower. Even from where he stood, the sheer arrogance of the smirk on Britain's aristocratic face could be seen. Oh, that awful _ENGLAND. _"You can do it, lad. Just pull the trigger, you know you should." Oh, how that red-clothed snake whispers lies, _lies, __**lies**_ into frustrated, torn, _angered _Canada's ear.

"You! You bastard, stop whispering those treasonous words to my brother!" Oh, that—that thing (yes, England, Britain, whatever he was was certainly not worth being considered on the same level) will rue the day when he was caught murmuring lies to his sweet Canada.

A glare cast itself to him. "Really, you should see who is committing treason to whom." Polished black boots clack as he circles behind Canada, leaning in and assuring him of his purpose.

"I—I can't _do _it, Arthur. I can't shoot my b-brother." Eyes shut, head bowed, brow crinkled.

Smugness washes over his face, lopsided grin plastered on and darts coming from the depthless blue. "Oh, can you hear _that, _England! Can you hear how my brother loves _me_!"

"Oh, quiet, you idiot. I'm not trying to be on either side. Leave me, both of you!" He stands there, frantic but holding his ground like a cornered animal. Ready to strike if necessary, but hoping to be forgotten.

"Mattie, get down!" Voice sing-song, threateningly cheerful.

"No!"

"Matthew, stay with me, lad!" Britain clasps the boy's shoulder, hauling him over and down to look him in the eye, face grim and dark and warning, saying '_Don't you __**dare **__go against __**me**__, boy.'_

"Please, please, just leave me alone!"

"I'm not asking anymore. Down, or be fired into compliance." All light is gone from his eyes. Oh, if this game shall be played, let it be so.

Menacing, hard green is clear like emerald, but it has the lust of red ruby, red of blood, staining the purity. "See, see how it is; how _he_ is? Do it now. Now or never, true or _traitor_."

"I'm counting—one…" He looks up the wall, ready to fire on three, ready to _make _him see the right and valiant.

Canada stands, unmoving, gun aimed, but not ready to commit.

"Two…"

"Shoot already, lad!" Britain is ready to murder them both if need be.

"I'm so, so sorry, Alfred." A lone tear creeps down his cheek, only to be blown off by the whistling wind around them.

"Thr—"

"Three!" A round strikes him down. He crumples, so slowly it is as if time has stopped. The tattered militia coat turns red, maroon, sanguine over the once navy fabric.

Britain leans over the ramparts, hands clasped behind his back and smiling oh so delighted.

"Three!" Another tear rolls, but on the other cheek. The smell of gun powder fills the air as yet another ball hits the fallen America. The Bess is being lowered.

"Another, Matthew."

Shock is replaced by the need to just get it all over with. "Th—three." Whispered, barely there, but followed by another bringer of pain and death.

The rounds don't stop until the snow around his prostrate form seems to be bleeding. There is just so much red, too much red. Red snow and red coats.

Then black.

* * *

He stands in front of his fireplace, staring into the glowing embers. He had been looking at a true fire, but time has passed for an unknown length. Discarded bottles lay around the officers quarters, some still containing a small amount of the alcohol they originally contained.

He looks up at the aging portrait of two brothers. One sits stiffly in a chair, a small, gracious smile gracing his pale face. The other stands to the side, one hand resting on the seated's shoulder. His bright blue eyes don't do the actual subject's eyes justice.

"Damn it, Al, why did you have to do this?!" '_Why did you have to change? Why are you no longer the summer to my winter, the sun to the moon? Why don't you laugh like the brook, or smile like the stars?_

He paces around, foot steps loud in their almost stomping state. His gaze darts around, searching for anything to grab. He pulls his ornamental saber out, only to feel empty and angry all at once at it too. He walks back over to the portrait hanging above the fire, gazing at it appraisingly.

"Hm...you know, I think this looks better as an individual." He carves around the contours of separating the two. He smiles disturbingly up at his handiwork. A knock pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah? Erm...yes, come in."

A soft push open revealed England, calmer now, though no less sated. "Lad, I was just coming to check on you." He sweeps the room, nose upturned, wrinkling in mild disgust. "You seem to be taking everything rather well, or at least as well as possible I suppose."

"I'm fine, thank you. I was just doing my duty as a British citizen." He looks longingly, trying to grasp on to any approval from the unappeasable nation.

"Well, as a colonist, Matthew. You did well for that."

"Col—colonist? Yes, but more than that, right? I'm British..." He is bewildered, confused, desperate.

Something a kin to pity (or was he just imagining it?) flickered across his face. "Oh yes lad, you're British, just not as much as I. Not as much as the Isles."

He's on the verge of tears, but he hardens. "Alfred was right, Arthur. You don't view us as equals, as the same."

"No, I don't. But you understand more than he."

Quiet fills the room. Nothing seems to move, but everything seems to be spinning to him. Must be the rum.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Britain unties a weathered leather pouch from his belt and extends it to him. "I found this on... him. Thirty silver coins, different currencies, but silver. It is good payment for a loyal lad like yourself." Giving a small smile while pressing the weighty pouch into his hands, Britain looks as if he's rewarding a small child with a confection.

Vacant is his mind as he views the purse. "Thirty pieces of silver, huh? Rather fitting, I think now. For a traitor." A self-deprecating smirk crawls across his face as he bows his head.

"Traitor to whom? You're proper enough, don't sully yourself in rebellion."

_Traitor to myself. _"Out."

"What was that?" He's stiff, challenging the underling to venture again.

"Out! I said out!" He points to the door, back turned to the nation.

"All right, all right, I'm leaving." He is halfway out the door before he turns back. "You're done, by the way. You have no more part in this, I'm done needing you."

"Oh, really! Well, did you ever need me, huh?! Did you ever care?" He just wants to be recognized, be different than his brother.

He ponders a moment before answering levelly, "Not as much as you would like."

"Don't bother coming back for anything! I'm done with this dispute between you and Al."

"Whatever the case may be, you chose. I couldn't care less at this point. You chose, and it just worked in my favor. Deal with it." At this, England exits, leaving him to dwell in his own misery.

The thirty coins are heavy in his hand. He flings the purse against the wall. "Oh Al, Arthur, why..." He yet again gazes up at the picture. He's been doing that a lot tonight, hasn't he? "We're separate now. Together, but separate." He leans into the portrait and kisses the painted brow. "Together separate."


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew isn't human. He's the corporeal manifestation of Canada itself, and he _is_ his country. When his country, when his _people_ aren't happy, neither is he. Everything that happens to his land, his oceans, his citizens- it all affects him. Natural disasters _hurt_, give him wounds to match the severity of the event. Economic crises make him sick, make his bones _ache_ with the weariness that his people feel.

But war, _war_ is the worst.

War _destroys_. War _breaks_ him, both his body and his mind.

He used to think that war was the worst thing that could happen to him.

(He was so very wrong.)

* * *

America isn't used to the way that Mattie's eyes track his movements with wariness, nor how his shoulders are tense, even after it's _over,_ Mattie's still ready for a war that Alfred _doesn't want to fight anymore_.

Mattie doesn't smile at him when he does silly, foolish things; not like he'd used to. He would smile and laugh indulgently, maybe give him a gentle tap on the back of his head that would have been a slap from anyone else.

* * *

Matthew isn't human.

Matthew is his country, and everything that happens to it directly affects him.

He used to think that war was the worst thing that could happen to him.

Matthew knows that he was wrong to think that, and Matthew knows that _betrayal_ is even worse.

* * *

Alfred hates how Mattie doesn't come and stay with him in his big, empty house, not like he used to.

When he does visit, it's always with someone else: sometimes Arthur, or Francis, or even Prussia on one occasion when their father figures were both busy. He brings someone to watch them together, supervise, and Canada always, always keeps a careful eye on his movements.

He doesn't _trust_ Alfred anymore, not like a brother, not like _family_. They're just two different countries now. And Mattie, he acts like he needs to keep his guard up whenever he's around Alfred, as though he's scared that he's going to _do_ something.

(Sometimes Alfred dreams about the lost, hurt look in Mattie's eyes.)

* * *

Matthew isn't human.

Matthew is Canada, and Canada is him.

Matthew knows that betrayal is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him, because _betrayal_, from country to country, effects not only his people, his land, but the _person he is_.

Nothing else can cut as deep into what he thinks of as his soul, slashing right through memories, and trust, and love.

America _betrayed_ him, something that he never thought his brother would even consider. Alfred _hurt_ him, his land, his people. Brought war to him, fought him, and became an entirely different person in Matthew's eyes.

A person capable of betrayal.

Matthew doesn't know if he'll ever be able to forgive him for that.

* * *

Alfred doesn't know why Mattie can't let it go. He doesn't get how deeply Mattie's hurt inside, but he tries. He's tried everything he can think, but Mattie won't listen. Mattie doesn't _care_.

Alfred supposes he deserves this, and countries can carry grudges for centuries, millenia, _forever._ But, if Mattie's not willing to forgive, what do they have left? What's family?

(Two hundred and thirty-seven years is a long time, but not for them.)

* * *

Matthew isn't human.

Matthew is Canada, and Canada is him.

If his land has healed, he heals. If his people forgive, so should he. Right? It seems to be the obvious answer, but when has something ever been easy for countries? Why can't he have his own rights, rights to reject the presence of one who so deeply scarred him?

Matthew doesn't know what to do anymore.

* * *

It's December once again.

* * *

Time passes. For humans, memories fade like old photographs, softer, less clear. Everything gets better with time. They always forget, and move on.

Matthew isn't human. Matthew is Canada, and Canada remembers.

Matthew can forgive, but he can never, ever, forget.


End file.
